


The Scarecrow

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Count Hannibal Lecter, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Murder, Scarecrow Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 10:39:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11804349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: Nothing about the scarecrow made sense to Hannibal.It had been mounted on a hill, where it would serve no purpose in defending the grain, which in any case had long been picked. Moreover, unlike its mates - some of whom were festooned with hats - this creature's head had been crowned with a pair of stag antlers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of deleted fic. Apols for removing the original.

_"He trembles in the bitter wind  
_ _Until it's time for us to speak."_

November had come. The barley fields were crisped with frost. Each evening their blanket of straw shimmered, lit by the venous red of the setting sun.

The fields adjoined Hannibal's crumbling estate and stretched for miles, stopping only when they reached the horizon and its low undulation of barren hills. Little interrupted the flat sprawl. Only a few scarecrows, scrap cloth bundled about their stick-cross bodies and stiffened mid-flutter in the biting cold, stood scattered about the still scenery.

Paths veined the fields, tracing up to the hills. With rare exception, Hannibal walked the paths each evening at sunset.

He had, for this ritual, three well-formed reasons.

Firstly, it pleased him to survey the lands which for centuries had rightfully belonged to those who'd borne his name - and now to him alone. He enjoyed thinking of the harvest they yielded, the harvest he was owed. Grain ground and baked into dark loaves, brought to his door to soak up darker stews. All of life and its labours, reaching completeness at Hannibal's table.

Secondly, he knew that the cowering villagers - usually out of his sight but watching, always watching - liked their monsters to have well-established routines. The predictability of his nightly march soothed them into complacency. To indulge them in this seemed to him quite gracious.

Finally, the scenery itself never ceased to please him. The pastoral idyll of red sun swept over the ragged fields and cast over the remnants of his castle walls was unchanging. Like the peasants who plowed his fields, Hannibal, too, admitted to being fond of routine.

That evening, he walked the fields as he had countless times before. Nothing moved in the periphery of his gaze, but for the shadowy figures of several canine envoys sent from the village. Sent, Hannibal assumed, in hopes of capturing a rabbit or - he thought with passing amusements - to act as their humans' spies.

As Hannibal's eyes swept over the cold vastness of his lands, he knew something in his view had changed. The hills cresting the horizon no longer stood empty.

Hannibal paused and observed the change through puffs of steaming breath.

The straw and cloth deterrent, larger and more shapely than its crude companions, was certainly new. Its rags hadn't yet fallen prey to frost -- they flicked and fluttered feverishly, moved by even the slightest twitch of the icy air.

For a moment nothing about the scarecrow made sense to Hannibal.

It had been mounted on a hill, where it would serve no purpose in defending the grain, which in any case had long been picked. Moreover, unlike its mates - some of which were festooned with hats - this creature's head had been crowned with a pair of stag antlers.

As he stood there, a sort of dark mirth warmed Hannibal through. Of course. This was no common scarecrow, but a superstitious totem, erected by the locals to guard against that which they suspected was the greatest darkness to plague their lives: himself.

Hannibal didn't alter his usual route to examine the antlered apparition. Something about its silhouette gave a final, painterly touch to the paysage of frosted hills and crimson skies. It pleased him.

He smirked, nodded to it from a distance, then moved on.

That night Hannibal at last put to good use the son of the local butcher, who that summer had been foolish enough to accept a dare and fling rotten apples at Hannibal's walls. The boy had aged well in the cool and dark of Hannibal's cellars. The leaner parts of him had stewed to melting tenderness amidst sausages from his father's shop and well complimented Hannibal's apple compote.

As he dined, alone at his long oak table, in the vaulted feasting hall of his ancestors, Hannibal thought he heard a low moan carry in from the fields of shorn barley. He assumed one of the dogs had lost its way home.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal set out into the fields the following evening and soon found his eyes cast up to the rolling hills.

The singular, oversized poppet stood where it had the day before. Its body had sagged on the pole, its rags grown inert in the hardening frost. But its presence still pleased Hannibal. From afar, it still completed the scene in a way Hannibal found picturesque.

The village dogs had returned to roam the fields, perhaps seeking reunion with their strayed mate. This time they didn't seem to keep their cautious perimeter around Hannibal. On the contrary: as Hannibal looked on, they began to close ranks, as if drawn to each other by an invisible force. Before long, they were nothing more than a furry cloud, moving together across frozen ground. They picked up pace and crossed Hannibal's path with oblivious single-mindedness.

As they passed, not one of the creatures lifted its eyes to Hannibal. They trotted determinedly onwards. Onwards, towards the tallest hill.

They soon reached it. There, some of them settled, some circled restlessly, at the foot of the antlered scarecrow.

Hannibal stopped and watched them for a moment. Then stepped off his path and followed.

He crossed the fields. He walked and walked, frozen straw snapping hard beneath his boots. He climbed the hill, his step once faulting into a slip on the icy slope.

Soon he was stood at the foot of the effigy, now guarded by a pack seven strong.

Until now the scarecrow had presented itself to Hannibal as no more than a shadow, back-lit by dim skies. Now Hannibal could study it in detail.

No effort had been spared in setting it apart from its utilitarian mates.

Mounted atop a tall slim stake, the limbs and torso of the burlap figure were so well shaped with a stuffing of straw as to be mistaken from afar for a man crucified. Its arms were flung wide, knotted to the crossbeam with thick rope. It was dressed in the hard-wearing, shapeless garb of the men who worked Hannibal's fields, an ordinary blue.

The rough burlap had spared its head. Instead, the cloth skull was formed of fine white linen - sacrificed, Hannibal thought, from a good Sunday shirt or a bridal garment. A scrap of curling black fleece, no doubt from the back of some tender lamb, had been sewn on for hair beneath the antlers.

And for the eyes: two large mother-of-pearl buttons, streaked with blue. Though chipped at the edges, they were otherwise fine enough to be heirlooms. The mouth had been embroidered on with red thread. The stitched shape was so distinct as to make Hannibal wonder if he were meant to recognise in it the reproduction of lips once living.

The head had drooped since yesterday. In the deepening murk, the button eyes watched Hannibal fixedly from above, bright as if smeared with belladonna drops. The shadow of the antlers hovered over, stretched long and craggly by the rays of the setting sun.

"No match for your companions," murmured Hannibal, nodding back to the crude  
constructions of stick and rag littering the barley fields below. He found himself inexplicably delighted that someone had applied all their craft and surrendered precious possessions in a futile attempt to ward him off. He found in himself a measure of admiration for the maker of this fanciful juju doll.

"But now, on closer inspection, you are hardly a fright." Hannibal paused. Then added, "On the contrary."

Then Hannibal spoke no more, for he realised that he half-expected the mannequin to respond.

He turned and set off once more towards the path, resuming his walk from where he had left off.

That night a lost travelling salesman knocked on Hannibal's gate. Keen to shield himself from the first of the snow, the man stepped rudely uninvited into Hannibal's hall and tracked mud over the marble floor.

Hannibal snapped his neck and ferried him off to join the rest of the early winter provisions.

It was nearly midnight when Hannibal drew back the embroidered canopy curtains of his bed and leaned across the the sprawl of the mattress to blow out the last candle. Mere minutes passed when, through the darkness, the echoing moan reached him again, far from the fields. This time Hannibal let himself listen to the strangely haunting melody. Its mournful call carried him off to sleep.

Morning came. Evening came. Hannibal walked the fields once more. Once more he strayed from his path. No matter. A small change in his route and routine must be permitted once in a while. And after all, ought he not inspect all aspects of his estate, even the most mundane ones?

The dogs had preceded him: they were already nested at the foot of the antlered scarecrow. Hannibal ascended the hill and inspected the figure once more.

A broad gash had split the cloth of the scarecrow's cheek. Straw spilled black against the pale linen of its face. The eyes shone bright.

Hannibal frowned.


	3. Chapter 3

A week had passed. Winter's shears trimmed the days and snow clouds dyed the crimson sunsets a silver blue. Hannibal walked the fields as he had before.

Or nearly as before, for he felt it right that on occasion he should visit - inspect, rather - the antlered effigy upon the hill. Its canine guard had done the same, far more faithfully. Daily Hannibal had found some or all seven of the dogs near the scarecrow's feet, pacing about or huddled together against the biting cold.

The wide rip in the linen cheek still seeped with straw and still made Hannibal frown. The burlap body had sagged further on its stake, bringing its pearl blue button eyes ever closer to Hannibal's gaze.

Hannibal's nights were silent. No doleful cries rolled in from the fields.

The evening of Hannibal's dinner party had arrived. Four guests from the capital and two of the more placid and gullible officials from the village drank Hannibal's wine and commended Hannibal on the aromatic contents of his pies. And why should they not have done? The dried summer herbs had suffused beautifully the backstrap and kidneys of the travelling salesman.

That night, when his sated visitors had departed and he readied himself for his repose, the song of mournful moans reached Hannibal once more. He could no longer ascribe it to an animal, for this time he was certain the dogs themselves were echoing each cry with their  
own plaintive cacophony.

Hannibal lay in the dark and let the cries haunt him to sleep.

He dreamt he was trudging through the frozen fields, tugging a thin rope. It pulled taught, and with such effort as to burn his palms raw. Dragging through the icy straw some paces behind him, coiled tightly about the rope's end and heavy as an anvil, was a bloody heart.

The following evening Hannibal again strayed from his usual path and headed for the tallest hill. Three of the pack paced agitatedly about the slopes and the smallest and scruffiest of their rank pawed at the root of the stake with a low whine. It needn't have signalled: Hannibal saw at once what had caused its distress.

The scarecrow's right shoulder gaped open, blue cloth burst apart as if by a pistol shot. Its outstretched arm, already sagging in its rope restraints, twisted further as if jolted by the injury.

Hannibal's mouth twitched. He had heard no pistol, nor would anyone dare hunt with such a weapon anywhere within the range of his hearing.

He slipped off a glove and lifted up his fingers to where the shards of straw split the scarecrow's garb. He stretched, but the fresh rip lay just outside his reach.

"Perhaps you might know who did this to him," said Hannibal to the dogs and immediately felt a touch of uncharacteristic self-reproach, both for addressing unintelligent creatures directly and for referring to the scarecrow in human terms.

He stood about for a moment longer then turned and walked off so sharply as to nearly slip again upon the hill's icy slope. He resumed his walk as before.  

The next day the small, stout man who at last month's public lecture had inundated Hannibal with inane questions, arrived in answer to Hannibal's invitation. He was quickly dispatched. Hannibal considered briefly, with a graciousness that pleased him, whether the man's sweetbreads might not be gifted to the scarecrow's canine guard.

That night the cries came through the fields, louder and more choked with grief than  
ever before. By morning Hannibal was pacing restlessly about his halls, as if the hour of his walk would never arrive.

The snow was falling thickly by the time he crested the hill and made it past the frantic dogs. The belly of the scarecrow stood slashed open, a raw grin of dry stalks and cloth.

Hannibal was not an indecisive man. There was, as far as he was concerned, only one thing to be done.

He walked a mile back to his estate. He climbed the broad winding staircase, up to the rooms he had kept shut up for decades. Within them he sought and found at last a small carved casket. He carried it down to the feasting hall and set it down upon the dining table. He added fuel to the fire so that it burned big and bright.

Then he set out again into the dusk-swept fields, equipped with a saw.   
  
\--

There was no question of extracting the stake from the frozen ground so Hannibal sawed and sawed until the main beam came creaking down. He caught it as it toppled. It was heavier than he'd imagined.

The saw made quicker work of the ropes which bound the body. Hannibal's fingers burned with the cold, his cheeks with the effort.

But then it was done and the frozen form slumped stiffly into Hannibal's arms. He lifted it and carried it through the snowy fields, antlers snagging at the soft cashmere of his scarf and dark curling fleece of the hair nuzzled against his chin.

The dogs trailed him to his gates.

Wearied by his exertions, Hannibal placed the scarecrow across his dining table with measured care. The frost-stiffened limbs had slackened from the warmth of Hannibal's body and the heat of Hannibal's hearth. They thawed into puddles that trickled to the floor. The mother-of-pearl eyes stared up at Hannibal's vaulted ceilings, bright as before.

Hannibal sat down and reached for the carved box. He loosened its latch and lifted the lid. The colorful haberdashery within unlocked a hundred such caskets in the palace of his memory.

He used to listen to her sing in a thin, sweet voice. He used to watch her small fingers work to reattach missing buttons and affix lace ribbons to the frocks of her pretty dolls. He used to watch and wonder and, inadvertently, learn.

"If you are to adorn my fields," he murmured now to the scarecrow, "the least I ask is that you look presentable."

And then he reached into the box to find a needle and fed it through with good, strong thread.


	4. Chapter 4

_"My so-called friends say you're not alive --_  
_I'll bake their bones for telling lies."_

The late evening hours crept by quietly but for the crackle of burning cinders and the soft sound of needle pulling through cloth. The warm summer smell of dry hay filled Hannibal's nostrils.

He had stripped back the torn remains of the scarecrow's shirt and tended to fabric wounds with a surgeon's care. The fire's glow danced and shifted in the pearl blue button eyes. Hannibal stood up at last to examine his efforts.

He considered himself accomplished in many arts, but even Hannibal had to admit that his needlework left something to be desired. The stitches through the scarecrow's belly, shoulder and cheek were tidy but visible. However, to Hannibal's satisfaction, he -- it -- was once again whole. This would have to do.

The scarecrow's blue flannel shirt was beyond repair. Finding a suitable replacement could wait until morning. Hannibal was sure he would find something adequate amongst the discarded clothes of his victims.

He retired to his bed. In the few hours that remained until dawn, he dreamt that the scarecrow's bare burlap torso jerked and expanded upon his dining table, shaken by a rhythmic throb. Hannibal's neat stitches strained and his strong thread creaked.

In the morning, throat tight and mouth twisted, Hannibal stood and stared down at the antlered occupant of his table. Its cheek seeped, its shoulder blistered and its belly gaped with straw.

Of course, thought Hannibal, soon appeased by reason. The scarecrow's stuffing must have dried during the course of the night and swelled enough to undo Hannibal's less than perfect handiwork.

Hannibal always applied infinite patience to his chosen enterprises. He went about his day. He had his walk. He dined. Then he sought out a new workman's shirt, settled down by the effigy and reenacted the previous night's task.

That night, in his dreams, the stitches he had made beaded black with blood.

In the morning the scarecrow's cheek seeped, its shoulder blistered and its belly gaped with straw. Hannibal's hand reached slowly between the antler crown and his fingers tightened in the dark fleece curls. He twisted as much as he caressed.

"Don't worry," he said, peering down into the fixed blue button gaze, "I promise we shall do better tonight."

\--

December was dawning and snows blanketed the barley fields. Days had frayed to precious scraps of light. Outside Hannibal's gates dogs circled and circled until they were summoned back to their homes. In the village beyond the hills a whisper carried that Hannibal was no longer to be seen at dusk, walking his lands.

More than a week had passed. Outside Hannibal's gates, life went by unscathed and uncorrected by his hand. He no longer walked the fields.

Instead, Hannibal stripped the strongest gold thread from the embroideries of his canopy curtains and pulled it through his needle. Hannibal cut patch cloth from his best shirts. Each evening he worked until ache settled into his wrists and each morning the scarecrow lay before Hannibal more ragged than before. Its eyes shone bright - almost defiant.

Hannibal summoned his tailor.

The man did as he was told and examined the damage to the effigy with something like baffled trepidation.

"Can it be repaired?" inquired Hannibal.

"Certainly, Count Lecter, certainly. But, if I may -- it may be easier to replace the torn fabric entirely," the man hesitated then continued, misperceiving something positive in Hannibal's body language. "Or better yet, I shall be happy to make you an exact replica and this one we may scrap altogether!"

Hannibal's thoughts wavered somewhere between murder and the knowledge that no one else in a fifty mile radius could provide him with a satisfactory summer wardrobe.

"Kindly set about your mending work now. I will double your usual fee."

\--

The next morning the dull ache that had begun to churn somewhere in the pit of Hannibal's stomach rose and bubbled over. He took it up for closer examination and recognised it from the study of human emotion as a sense of betrayal. Of loss.

Much like his own, the tailor's efforts had failed.

Hannibal was not an indecisive man. Though he paced the length of his dining table several times and twice stopped to peer into the flames of his fire, he knew of only one course of action.

The torn up body of the antlered scarecrow was yielding, warmed through by Hannibal's hearth, and so unlike the frost-stiffened effigy he had carried home to mend. As he lifted it tenderly into his arms, Hannibal let his lips pass over the finely embroidered red mouth.

Weeks had passed. When Hannibal last walked through the fields he had carried a saw. This time, when he set out into the night with the scarecrow draped over his shoulder, he carried a torch.

\--

The night was all stillness and ice, lit harshly by a silver moon and warmly by Hannibal's flame. Seven restless shapes awaited Hannibal upon the tallest hill, much as he knew they would. They sensed his intent. As he approached they broke into a pitiful wail but kept their distance, warded off by the light.

The felled beams lay where Hannibal had left them. He lowered his soft burden against them. He lingered. And lingered. Then slipped his torch beneath the wood and straw and cloth.

He shut his eyes before the flames could rise - and they rose quickly. As they did, Hannibal saw himself walking through the fields again, as he had countless times before. He saw himself looking up at the rolling hills and the red sunset skies and seeing nothing to divide the lonesome scene. He imagined his feelings then and pictured himself hurling them onto the fire.

Hannibal stood, eyes shut, between the chill of the night and the heat of the flames, circled by frantic dogs that would not cease their pleading. He stood until the glow that danced over his eyelids began to fade. He turned and didn't hesitate to step away. With a single sound his footstep faltered on the ice.

Through the canine chorus came a soft and plaintive cry he recognised at once as the song that had called him from the fields.

He turned and peered up to where the last glow of pyre outlined the shivering shape of a naked man.

Amidst the embers and in the moonlight the man's eyes shone bright. His hands clutched his antler crown.

Hannibal stepped up, moved closer, closer. He offered the man his coat.


End file.
